


Comfort Eagle

by SubwayWolf



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Office Blow Jobs, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubwayWolf/pseuds/SubwayWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doug loves a good sense of purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Eagle

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this since the start of season two. Now I'm one episode away from finishing the series and just jumping on this now. There's just a really sad lack of fic for this fandom, I tried to remedy that a little. I hope you all enjoy!

Doug’s knees ached. He couldn’t remember how long he had been upon them. He shifted, leaning forward, pressing the side of his face against Frank Underwood’s crotch, cheek urging against the cold zipper of his dress pants. His eyes were half-lidded and lazy. Blood in his brain was whirring at the speed the earth turned, and all motion lacked color. Blindly drunk, he raised a hand up to grasp the pants at his side, gripping them, taking the steam-pressed, black fabric in a handful and clutching like a newborn baby to his father’s index finger, clasping like his very life depended on the contact.

“Letting your demons get the better of you again?” Frank sighed. “I thought you were stronger than this.” 

The congressman leaned against his mahogany desk, arms rigid from propping himself up along the edges. Exclusively by his tone it was clear that Frank was disappointed, which made this entire situation exponentially worse. Frank Underwood did not like to be disappointed. Frank Underwood did not waist his time with people who disappointed him. Frank Underwood did not love people who disappointed him. Doug felt like crying. Perhaps he was. He wasn’t entirely sure how to tell. 

Drearily venerating, Doug could feel the outline of a cock pressing against his cheek. He turned his eyes up and begged his boss silently. _Fuck my mouth_ , he wanted to say, but that would be an order. It wasn’t his place to tell Frank what to do. Doug needed to be commanded; he wanted to be commanded. He deserved to be chastised. “Mister Underwood,” he whispered, the side of his face brushing against the fabric. A sob suddenly caught in his throat and he could hardly breathe. He was not stronger than this. He was weak, brittle, and lust-starved, and Frank knew it.

Frank sighed, and it wasn’t even wholehearted. His shoulders barely heaved, his chest only slightly expanded. It was the same sigh he gave to the broken coffee machine in the break room, the same sigh he would breathe when accidentally cutting the pad of his thumb on the pointed edge of an envelope he was trying to open. 

“This is not a reward.” Francis liked to make things clear, but he did not have to say this for Doug to understand.

Doug turned his blurry eyes up. He wasted no time loosening the politician’s belt, tugging his pants and briefs down, and watching his heavy cock drop out. Doug grasped at it, curling his fingers around its base so that the side of his knuckles were pressing against Frank’s plump, heavy sack. He tugged on it tautly but slowly, but only for a moment before he moved into action with an endearing sort of fervor.

He made eye contact all the while. Starting with his tongue around the head was entirely a formality. It was not long after that Doug dipped his head, moving so Frank’s cock pushed through his lips, over his tongue, and to the back of his throat, then deeper, where he knew Frank wanted it to be. The cock was thick and heavy in his mouth, and he strained to keep his jaw open to hold it all. With his airway completely blocked, the rings of smooth muscle around his trachea began to spasm in alarm. Tears began to leak out the edges of Doug’s eyes. He choked for half a second before he was able to catch himself.

Barely able to stop from letting out a low moan, Frank clenched his jaw and his fists. “You’re pathetic,” he growled. He rolled his shoulders, trying to relax.

Frank was right, and wrong. It was worse than pathetic. Doug worshipped Frank Underwood like a fucking dog. Here he was, drunk beyond coherent cognition, and his heart was surging with adulation as he sat at Frank’s feet, pulling the pulsating cock out of the deepest parts of his throat just to lap up pre-come with his loose, quick tongue as if he were some back-alley, Southern whore. By far the most pathetic aspect of this was that Doug wanted it. His own cock was throbbing, filling with alcohol-poisoned blood and tenting his pants between his legs, and he didn’t dare to touch it. He knew Frank would not give him permission to, not as if he deserved it in the first place. 

Exhaling, Frank loosened his tie. His breathing was becoming rapid. His lips parted and he threw his head back. Doug watched him do this. He felt one of Frank’s hands moving from the desk edge to the back of Doug’s head, skin rough and fingernails pristine. Doug sucked, bobbing his head with unmatchable dedication. As he worked, his liver was doing its job, agonizingly slow. Colors swarmed behind his eyes. 

Doug wasn’t on the floor just to kneel. He was genuflecting.

When Frank Underwood unloaded hot seed into the back of his throat, Doug felt like nothing less than a starved sycophant. This was not a reward for his devotion, but it sure felt like one. The sour come trailed down his throat, tickling him, making the back of his tongue raze with bitterness. It was better than whiskey and brandy and every other one of Doug’s demons because Frank Underwood was Lucifer Himself, reigning sultan of them all. As he swallowed it down, Doug was exultant. 

“From now on, you’ll be sober,” Frank suggested. No, he commanded it. “Do not expect me to indulge you like this again.” He packed himself up and left Doug, who remained panting and drunk on the floor of the office, bowing his head to the desk like it was the seat of God.

Hundreds upon hundreds of days passed, and Doug Stamper honored that command, just as he would any other his boss gave him. 

It wasn’t love. It was zealous loyalty. It was ardent devotion. And above all, it was deification. Faith and reverence are stronger than physiological dependence, or perhaps they are the same thing.


End file.
